


Ill-Fitting Pieces

by Skalidra



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics)
Genre: Anal Sex, Biting, Consensual Underage Sex, Developing Relationship, M/M, Masochism, Nipple Torture, Revenge Sex, Rough Sex, Sadism, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-09
Updated: 2016-05-23
Packaged: 2018-06-07 07:41:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6795229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skalidra/pseuds/Skalidra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruce and Jason have a thing going on; a night every month or so to be as rough and violent as they want to be, without restraints. At least until Bruce leaves for almost two months, off-world, without even telling him. Out of anger, frustration, and an itch he can't scratch, Jason sets his eyes on a different target.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [theLiterator](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theLiterator/gifts).



> So honestly, I don't really expect anyone to read this. XD But uh, if you do, the basic version is this is terrible, unhealthy, awfulness involving Brujay and then JayDami. At the same time (not physically). It's ugly. If you're still about to read, I hope you enjoy!

It starts like it always does.

Jason harasses Bruce out on patrol, following him and making comments, taking shots into the combats to leave one or two thugs with clear bullet wounds that won’t match up. Thing that will mess with the story of being taken down by the great _Batman_. He watches Bruce get more and more irritated until he gets turned on, gets snarled at to back off and leave Bruce be. Keeps following, pushing, dropping sarcastic comments, and then _finally_ Bruce snaps.

It’s sudden, brutal, and Jason takes a few punches in the precise, _ruthless_ whirl of the dance; gives back just as much as he takes. The blows are muted by armor, and no weapons come into play. They never do. Jason leaves his guns in their holsters, the knife at his thigh in its sheath, and sticks to fists and boots. He’ll have bruises, and so will Bruce, but it won’t be any worse. Not until they _really_ start in on each other.

The first bit is when Bruce slams him face first into a wall hard enough to stun. The brick leaves scratches on the front of his helmet, Bruce’s teeth leave a painful bite on the back of his neck, on the only slice of skin that isn’t covered between armor and helmet, and then he’s being dragged back. He gets away from the grip, leaves Bruce with a punch to the jaw that will _definitely_ bruise bright and vivid, and retreats.

Not far enough to be outright running, keeping up the fight and the taunts as he leads Bruce across Gotham. Bruce stays close, and it’s unspoken but both of them know exactly where this is headed. When Bruce slams him up against the wall on a fire escape, next to a window that leads to one of Bruce’s more discreet safehouses, it’s no surprise to either of them.

When Bruce shoves closer, growls, “Stay,” at him, he laughs.

“Fucking _bite_ me,” he snarls back, and Bruce doesn’t even hesitate.

One hand grabs him by the front of his helmet and pushes his head up and to the side, twisting his neck and baring that same slice of skin for another sharp dig of teeth near the front of his throat. He groans through his teeth, puts a hard punch in Bruce’s side in retaliation that probably doesn’t do more than ache a little past the plates of armor.

“ _Stay_ ,” Bruce repeats, voice deeper and darker than Jason can hope to match.

He shoves out the breath in his lungs, doesn’t fight when Bruce lets go and steps to the side, to the window. “Only cause you asked so _fucking_ nicely,” he spits.

Bruce carefully disables the security on the window, opens it, and Jason _moves_. He whirls and _shoves_ Bruce into the apartment with both hands to his low back, follows as Bruce rolls and turns in the middle, coming up on one knee to face him.

There’s one beat of silence as Jason closes the window, flicks the security back on and tugs the curtains closed. There are enough rumors in Gotham without there being one that Batman and Red Hood are fucking around; fun as it might be to _hurt_ Bruce’s reputation like that.

Bruce is standing by the time he turns around again, and then he _lunges_ for Bruce. They collide, all hard angles and ill-fitting pieces jarring against each other with too many sharp edges to even pretend they fit right. He jerks at Bruce’s cape, gets a hand pressing hard against his low back to crush them together and a leg hooking behind his to unbalance him.

Bruce’s lip is split, and he gives a sharp bark of laughter. Bruce can’t see his grin past the helmet, but it’s clear enough in his tone when he hisses, “You’ve got a little something on your chin there, _Brucie_.”

He can see the bottom half of the scowl, before Bruce’s free elbow hits his ribs and forces the wind out of him. The other hand yanks at the back of the collar of his jacket in that fraction of a second his hands reflexively loosen, and he topples backwards and hits the ground _hard_.

“Bite your tongue,” Bruce snaps back, dropping to the floor over him with a heavy thunk, knees bracketing his waist and one big hand closing over his throat.

He laughs again, sharp and vicious and alight with _anticipation_. “You’ve done all the biting tonight, remember?”

He grabs Bruce’s wrist, twists the hand away from his throat, flips them so Bruce is on his back beneath him for just one moment. The spare hand grazes the side of his neck, hooks the release for his helmet, and he draws back just enough to catch it and fling it aside before it falls on Bruce’s face. Funny as that would be, it’s not quite worth it. The moment of consideration costs him the advantage, and Bruce is surging up, hands sliding to one side of his torso and pulling, twisting. He hits the floor on his chest, hears Bruce’s breath rush out against his ear as weight presses down over him and hands jerk at the collar of his jacket.

He hisses as his shoulders snap back, arms locking straight as the leather gets pulled off him in one harsh yank, right before a second hand tangles gloved fingers in his hair and pulls _hard_. It arches his throat, forcing him to brace his hands against the floor unless he wants to let his hair take all the weight of the upper half of his torso being dragged up from the ground.

There’s a knee pressing into the small of his back, hard enough pressure to make him grit his teeth at the pain so he turns it into a grin instead. Gloved fingers hook under the edge of his domino mask, ripping it from his face without any of the luxury of actually loosening the adhesive first, before his head gets shoved back down and held there, turned just enough sideways that his nose isn’t grinding into the cheap carpet. That doesn’t stop the knee in his back though, or the too-knowledgeable pull of fingers at the hidden zipper for his armor at the back of his neck.

“What, not gonna buy me dinner first?” he taunts, muffled against the carpet as he presses his hands to the carpet, bends his legs to get his toes underneath him.

“This isn’t a _relationship_.”

He jerks into movement, pushing up against Bruce and it hurts like a _bitch_ but he manages to throw him off far enough to get out from underneath the pin. The hand stays in his hair though, harsh and unforgiving, and he snarls and goes with it, flinging his weight back into Bruce instead of trying to get any further away. Jason’s not naive enough to think that it’s surprising, but he does end up on top, layered down over the older man with his weight centered into Bruce’s sternum to make it harder to breathe, both arms pulled up to press against the ground and frame that fucking cowl.

“No,” he counters, “guess this is the kinda encounter where you pay me afterwards, huh? Crisp little folded bills on the nightstand or some shit like that?” He bares his teeth, rolls his hips in against Bruce’s and watches that little part of lips he gets in response. “I bet you’ve got at _least_ a couple hundred in that belt of yours; last I remember that was about the going rate for a good _fuck_.”

The hand in his hair _yanks_ — he swears he feels at least a couple strands part company with his scalp — and he yelps at the sharp fire of it before lips are crashing into his. It’s all teeth, all a sharp collision in the same way they always come together. Bruce is pushing up, pushing him back and dragging him in all at once until he’s sitting in the bastard’s lap. The gloved fingers of Bruce’s free hand are jerking at the last bit of the zipper holding his armor on, and he repays the favor by blindly reaching up and shoving the cowl back along Bruce’s skull to bare his face.

It gets him a sharp bite to his lower lip, but that’s almost nothing in the scale of things and he just grins into the kiss and bites right back. Bruce’s hand parts the armor on his back, fisting in the white t-shirt he’s got below. Two can play at that game though, and he drops his hands to Bruce’s shoulders, spreading his fingers out as they slide beneath the cape so he can find the little hidden catches holding the black fabric on. It’s easy with so much practice, and he’s already lowering his hands to Bruce’s ribs as the cape falls.

Then Bruce is letting go of his hair, getting his armor in both hands and dragging it forward instead. He almost curses when Bruce just _leaves_ it halfway down his arms and shoves him back, but manages to just snarl instead as he hits the ground. Bruce is moving, but Jason’s just as fast as Bruce when it counts, and he rolls with the impact and shakes the armor off his arms to be free again.

“That’s the rate for good _street_ ,” Bruce spits, shifting to his feet and Jason follows.

“Oh, don’t try to deny where I’m from now, B. You know exactly who you’re fucking; should have paid more if you wanted something more _high class_.”

“I’m not paying you anything,” is the snapped response, and Jason bares his teeth in a vicious smile.

“Then you get what you _fucking_ get, don’t you, Bruce? You don’t pick somebody up in an alley and expect them to raise their fucking pinkie when they drink tea.” Bruce’s eyes narrow, and Jason takes the cheap shot just because he _can_. “You want some high-society whore how about you go fuck _Tim?_ ”

Bruce is frozen for one single moment, and then he all but _roars_ and launches himself forward. Jason braces, takes the full weight of Bruce crashing into him and gets knocked back into a wall under it. Bruce puts a fist in his side, grabs him by the throat with the other hand in the same moment and he can barely get the gasp for air out underneath those steel fingers. But he doesn’t fight that, just grabs Bruce’s sides and drags him closer, grinning and grinding forward against the thigh that shoves its way between his. He hooks his still-gloved fingers into little catches he almost knows by heart, and by the time Bruce’s free hand is dropping to rip the holster off his thigh he’s almost got that first layer of armor off.

He pulls the last catch, yanks hard on the armor and Bruce hisses in irritation as it starts to peel off. Bruce lets go of his throat, shoves him into the wall like he’s going to get put _through_ it, then draws back enough to rip both gloves off.

He laughs, a little breathlessly, and comments, “Fucking control freak,” right as Bruce has the armor halfway off his arms and can’t retaliate. He just gets a nasty glare in response, before the armor drops to the floor.

Bruce’s hands close in his t-shirt, dragging him in for another collision of teeth and tongue that he meets wholeheartedly. He shoves both hands into Bruce’s hair, jerking at it until Bruce growls into the kiss and lands a solid punch to his gut. The breath whooshes out of him as he folds in on the impact, giving a sharp noise of pain and automatically letting go. It’s not enough to really damage, he can tell that by the feeling, but it’s a sharp ache that knocks the air from his lungs, makes his throat clench up for a second in instinctive reaction to the nausea that would be there if the blow were any harder.

Their mouths rip apart as Bruce grabs him by both shoulders and twists, shoving him face first against the wall before he can catch his breath. Bruce presses close to his back, weight doing most of the work of pinning him as those hands drop down to his pants. He shoves his hands against the wall, tries to push back, but Bruce has always outweighed him and without the right leverage — or really _hurting_ Bruce in a not-so-fun way — he’s not going to get out. Not without a distraction or something anyway.

This wouldn’t be nearly as good if he could.

So he snarls instead, shoving back just so Bruce will push him harder into the wall, almost enough that he has to struggle to breathe between the hard plaster and the heavy heat of Bruce’s chest. Hot air rushes over the side of his neck as Bruce gets his belt undone, all but yanking it out of the loops with one hand as the other deftly undoes the button and zipper of his pants.

He manages to get enough air to hiss, “If we’re not getting to a bed, you might want some of the supplies in my pockets.”

“Shut up,” Bruce growls right back.

Then those fingers are wrapping around his wrists, dragging his arms back hard enough that his shoulders strain at the sudden twist, and by the time he’s swallowed down the groan building in his throat Bruce has stripped the gloves off his hands. He feels the leather before he fully understands it, but only struggles a little bit as Bruce tightens the belt around his wrists, pulling it tight enough that it bites into his skin. If he really _wanted_ to he could slip it without that much trouble, but he doesn’t really want to. It’s just one more thing to pull against, to _feel_.

Bruce’s hand pushes back down, shoving beneath the waistband of his briefs and wrapping around his cock with no ceremony. That gets him to arch, gasp, before Bruce’s other hand grabs a handful of the hair at the back of his skull and tugs hard enough he has no choice but to arch his throat even further. The hand at his cock is rough, a little painful with nothing to ease the drag of calloused fingers, but _damn_ if it isn’t just right.

“Whore,” Bruce hisses into his ear, and Jason curls his mouth into something between a vicious grin and a snarl.

“Thought you weren’t paying me. Make up your fucking mind, _Brucie_.”

Bruce lets go of his hair, but only so that arm can wrap around the front of his neck. Fingers strong as steel clasp over his mouth, shoving his jaw shut and holding it that way, the wrist and arm pressed across his throat making it a little hard to breathe. He’s dragged away from the wall, half-carried and half-steered across the cheap apartment to the open door of a bedroom. He’s staggering, barely able to keep his balance and force his legs into small half-steps with the arm across his throat and the hand still shoved down his pants, roughly jerking at his cock.

His head is tilted back, but he manages to crane his gaze down far enough that he’s not caught totally by surprise when he gets shoved down onto the bed that’s the main focus of the room. He sprawls out across it, unable to catch himself without the use of his hands, and immediately Bruce’s hands are jerking his pants and briefs down, pulling them to his ankles before working at his boots. He squirms, trying to curl up to get enough leverage to push up or make some kind of attempt at fighting. But then his boots are gone, his pants are being yanked off, and suddenly the only things he’s wearing are a plain white shirt and the belt around his wrists.

Jason twists onto his side, looking back at Bruce just in time to catch the other man starting to strip out of the dark grey undersuit. He gives a mocking whistle, gets a glare for it. “A show, huh? Do I get fucking dinner too or is that a little too _personal_ for you?” He licks his lips to make the double entendre really obvious, as if it would possibly slip under Bruce’s notice.

The undersuit falls away, and then Bruce is striding forwards, down to a pair of tight black briefs, and climbing onto the bed. His breath almost fucking catches when Bruce straddles him, one powerful hand shoving him onto his back and holding him there by his right shoulder. It forces him to arch his back, to keep it that way so his arms aren’t crushed beneath the weight of both of their bodies. Bruce’s eyes are steel, his mouth a faint sneer, but then there’s that bulge in those black briefs, and Jason grins.

“Why even fucking pretend, B?” He bucks up, grins wider as Bruce’s mouth tightens. “You get off on this you fucking _freak_.”

Bruce’s other hand snaps out, and he grunts at the sharp impact of knuckles to his cheek as Bruce backhands him. It turns his head, but before he can look back up there are strong fingers grabbing his jaw, yanking it back.

“If one of us enjoys this, it’s _you_ ,” are the words spit down at him.

He bares his teeth, jerks against the hold on his jaw. “You’re the one in denial, not me. I know _exactly_ what I am, Bruce, you just can’t fucking handle the fact that you’re a fucked up, sadistic—”

Another backhand, same side of his face, which cuts him off mid sentence. Then fingers are shoving into his mouth and holding it open, pressing his tongue down to the bottom. He gasps in air past them, tastes the lingering flavors of leather and sweat and snarls around the intrusion, unable to free his tongue without biting down harder than he wants to. He still closes his teeth on Bruce’s fingers, tight enough to threaten but not to really harm.

Bruce leans down, getting right in his face, and growls, “Keep your _damn_ mouth shut or I will _gag_ you, Jason.”

He laughs around the fingers, then bites down hard enough that Bruce winces and pulls them from his mouth, teeth scraping the whole way. “You like my mouth too much,” he counters, then grins, sharp and wicked, and adds, “and I’d _enjoy_ it too much.”

He jerks up, stretching his neck to get up high enough to catch Bruce’s mouth in a kiss, closing teeth on his bottom lip to drag him down. One hand closes on his throat, but Bruce does follow him back down and the pressure around his neck is barely even enough to make him notice it past the distraction of Bruce’s mouth. For now.

A nip to that split lip is repaid with a sharp bite that threatens to split his too, that tightens those fingers until his breath catches, and he can feel Bruce’s other hand shoving his shirt up his chest. It bunches at his armpits, trapped by the bound arms, but that’s apparently far enough for Bruce’s target because those thick fingers are suddenly pinching at one nipple hard enough that he yelps. He’s expecting them to swap over, twist the other one to match, but they don’t. Instead Bruce rubs at it just long enough, in _just_ the right way, that sharp pleasure spikes down his spine, and then the fingers are turning vicious again, pinching it right between blunt nails that sure as hell don’t _feel_ blunt.

He twists his head away from the kiss, snarls, “Fuck! That _fucking_ hurts you son of a bitch!”

Bruce’s mouth twists up into a little smirk, the fingers on his throat tightening even further, threatening to bruise and cut off his air completely. “Thought you _liked_ pain,” Bruce murmurs, and anticipation lights in a sudden rush in his chest because he _knows_ that smug, mocking tone. Knows it means that Bruce’s nasty, sadistic, _leashed_ side is finally coming out to play.

So he twists his mouth into something between a grin and a snarl, bucking up against the solid weight of Bruce straddling his waist. “Thought you knew how to give it,” he gasps back, voice coming out thin and breathy against those fingers. “Don’t you fucking disappoint me now, _Bruce_.”

The smirk tightens a bit, and then Bruce is leaning down, jerking his head to the side and sinking teeth down into the skin below his ear. He bites back a groan, but then Bruce is pulling away just as quickly, leaning off to the side to pull open the drawer of the nightstand. The plastic bottle that comes out is familiar; there’s one scattered at just about every safehouse both of them own around the city, and probably out of it too.

He starts to open his mouth, say whatever biting comment comes to mind, but Bruce’s fingers clench down on his throat and he chokes instead, unable to breath for a couple of precious seconds until they ease a bit. Oh yeah, he’s going to bruise for sure.

Bruce shifts off his waist, kneeling at his side instead, and he starts to twist before Bruce’s free hand presses to his hip and pins him down. He almost shudders at the dark growl that comes from deep in Bruce’s chest, at the way that Bruce’s eyes have gone focused and steely in a way that usually means intense violence is going to follow pretty quickly. Usually it’s a look that people only see when other lives are on the line, and in this case it means he’s going to get _exactly_ what he wants.

The grip on his throat loosens, sliding up to push his jaw up and bare his neck, and Bruce is shifting again at the same time. He sucks in a sharp breath as Bruce’s knee presses down across his throat, the width keeping his head forced back and up even as Bruce’s hand lets go, the pressure making it a bit difficult to breathe but not nearly as bad — and _good_ — as the fingers were. It leaves Bruce’s hands free though, to uncap the lube and slick the fingers of his far hand before closing the bottle and dropping it to the side.

“Spread your legs,” Bruce orders, voice low and dark and hitting all those old parts of him that used to snap to when he was Robin.

He pulls against the belt securing his wrists, curling his mouth into a grin as he opens his legs, knees bending as he pushes his hips up in blatant invitation. Bruce takes it, gaze dropping down as the slick hand slides between his legs, shoving a finger into him with no real regard for the slight resistance. He groans in mixed pleasure and pain, before Bruce’s free hand is sliding up his chest, unmistakably back up towards the nipple he was abusing before.

He grits his teeth, expecting pain, but the touch is just firm instead, rolling it between fingers until it pebbles, until he’s tilting his head back even against the knee across his throat and pushing his chest up. Which is of course when Bruce _twists_ it and he has to yelp, brain not quite processing the sudden shift in sensations. He cringes away, not that it helps even a little and those fingers just follow. It’s sharp, painful, and he twists his hands into the sheets beneath him and tries to pull away, to get the sensitive piece of flesh away from the hand toying with it.

“Son of a _bitch_ ,” he finally gasps, as Bruce’s other hand — following his writhing without a problem — shoves a second finger in beside the first. Too much, too fast, but they’re slick and he can feel every fraction of it as those knuckles slide inside, fucking him in harsh, unrelenting thrusts that are just _perfect_.

Bruce’s hand swaps to the other nipple, and he manages a breathless snarl and a jerk of his chest that only manages to make Bruce’s leg press down harder against his throat. He’s a little more prepared for it this time, but that doesn’t mean the nails are any less painful the second time around. The conflicting sensations are playing havoc with his head, like they always do, but his cock has no such reservations and is standing firmly at attention. He can feel it, even if the angle Bruce has his head at doesn’t let him look down to actually see it himself.

By the time Bruce is pulling away he’s faintly trembling, tears in the corners of his eyes that he refuses to acknowledge and his mouth open, breath coming in harsh pants through his teeth. Bruce’s fingers pull out of him with no ceremony, knee easing off of his throat so he can finally _breathe_ against the tender, aching pain of his chest. He gets two short gasps before Bruce is grabbing him by shoulder and thigh and manually flipping him over onto his stomach. It’s actually a relief, because that lets him ease his back out of the arch he was using to protect his arms.

Bruce pushes between his thighs, and he can feel the other man’s hard cock pressing up against his ass, spares just a fraction of a second to wonder when Bruce stripped out of those black briefs. Just a fraction though, because then Bruce is repositioning, aiming, pushing forward and god the breath goes _right_ out of him. Freezes in his lungs because there’s no waiting, no adjustment period, just a solid push until he’s full and there’s no more length to press in.

Thick fingers curl around his hips, dragging him a few more inches up until he’s hanging in the grasp, the angle too low for him to get any of the weight on his knees. The change in position jerks his body back into action though, making him shiver and arch, pulling at the belt again.

It’s just a couple of seconds before Bruce’s grip is tightening and the _too much_ of it all is sliding out, giving him just a moment to catch his breath before the return thrust. Hard, fast, with no care for the fact that his cock is rubbing against the sheets every time he jolts forward from one of those slams. It’s frustratingly _almost_ enough, and he pushes his forehead into the sheets as well and shoves back against the thrusts as best as he can manage with Bruce holding him still.

“Come on,” he snarls. “Come _on_ , you bastard.”

Then one hand is rising and grabbing a handful of his hair, jerking him up and back into a sharp arch. His scalp _burns_ and he cries out, chest shaking in little tremors as his muscles try and maintain the arch without any real support. Bruce growls, leaning down into and over him, and the weight suddenly pressing him into the bed at least takes the pressure of off his scalp. Teeth dig into the side of his throat, the top of his shoulder, leaving dully aching points of pain that he knows from experience will turn into bruises that will be obvious bite marks. Knows that later he’ll dig his fingers into them while he’s jacking off and pretend that it’s the same calloused fingers, the same weight pressing into his back.

Bruce’s free hand lets go of his hip, circling around and grabbing his cock instead. He bucks into the hand, groans through his bared teeth at the contact and almost shouts when Bruce falls into a rhythm, hand jerking him off at odds with the hips snapping against him. Fast, rough, too much in the best of ways and he bites into his own lip hard enough to draw blood to keep from moaning.

When Bruce’s teeth close over the nape of his neck he gasps and arches, some long forgotten instinct screaming _give in_ as those teeth dig in over the bump of his spine. He struggles instead, pulling against the leather around his wrists and twisting beneath the solid weight fucking him into the mattress. It’s not enough to even make Bruce pause, and that excites him in a way it shouldn’t, in a way that makes him close his eyes and part his lips on a deep groan.

He shakes, pain edging over that line into _too much_ with the next bite and then he’s twisting again, crying out into the sheets as the coil in his gut draws tight, tighter, _snaps_.

The hand on his cock keeps moving, merciless as his orgasm rushes through him, leaves him high and sensitive as those fingers drag every last drop from him they can. Until he chokes on a sob, trying to twist his hips away from the overwhelming touch. Then they let go and Bruce draws back, both hands returning to his hips. He jerks at each probably accidental shove against his prostate, trying to catch his breath as Bruce fucks him with all the speed and strength of the other man working himself to his own release.

Finally Bruce snarls, fingers tightening painfully on his hips and rhythm stuttering until he finally comes with a shout. Jason squirms at the feeling of it, the hot rush inside of him and the _filthy_ knowledge that he’s being marked up in a way one hell of a lot more personal than teeth against a shoulder.

Bruce holds him still, panting, until he can feel the cock in him start to soften. Then Bruce pulls away, slipping out of him and letting go, heavy weight falling to the bed to his side. He stays still for another few moments, finishes catching his breath, and then twists his wrists and gets to work loosening the belt enough to slip his hands free. It’s not all that hard; at least he’s not having to dislocate his thumbs or try and hunt down some kind of key.

He rolls each shoulder slowly, stretching out the ache in them and slowly flexing his arms too, making sure nothing hurts in a way that might actually be important. Nothing does, so he stretches out once, feels something in his spine pop into place, and then twists to push up and off the bed. Not far, just far enough that he can dig into the pile on the floor that’s his pants and briefs and retrieve a cigarette from its carton as well as the lighter that’s in the same pocket.

Then he gets back on the bed, propping his back against the headboard and unceremoniously lighting the cigarette. Which is when Bruce’s eyes snap open, head tilting where the other man is lying on his stomach to look up at him with narrowed eyes.

“Jason…” Bruce starts, in a threatening growl.

“Fuck off,” he mutters, drawing in a nicotine-laced breath and closing his eyes for a moment in simple pleasure.

He can hear Bruce push up, hear the difference when Bruce snarls, “ _Put it out_ ,” almost directly in his ear.

He takes another deliberate drag, turns his head to meet those steel-blue eyes, and blows it out directly into Bruce’s face. “ _Fuck_ you,” he says with a grin.

It’s not even a little surprising when Bruce lunges at him, gets him down, twists his wrist enough to pry the cigarette out of his forcibly limp fingers. That turns to wrestling, to a fight that’s as much desperate kisses that taste like blood and smoke as it is hard punches, to him on his back on the cheap carpet with Bruce fucking him for a second time. His hands are free this time though, and Bruce ends up with long claw marks down his back and sides, a couple of which actually break the skin. Until Bruce gets fed up with it and puts him on his knees instead, one hand hard in his hair and teeth leaving bruises on every spot of empty skin Bruce can find and reach.

He ends up with a bit of rug burn on his knees and elbows, satisfaction humming through every limb as he stays half-curled on the carpet and watches Bruce put himself back together piece by piece. He can almost see Bruce once again carefully restraining that almost-cruel part of himself, locking it down underneath all those little walls that make it so much _fun_ to break out again.

He closes his eyes when Bruce leaves the room in search of the rest of his suit, only opens them again when he hears those somehow quiet footsteps and he can look up to see Bruce almost hovering over him, fully redressed except for that the cowl isn’t on yet.

He stares up at Bruce, unwilling to make the first move when he still feels so damn _good_ , and after a few moments of silence Bruce drops down over him. The cape flares, falling over both of them as Bruce fits one thigh between his and catches his mouth in a kiss. It’s brief, before Bruce is pulling back and sliding down his chest, both hands falling to grip his upper thighs and push them open. He has half a moment to wonder before Bruce’s head is lowering, teeth baring and then biting down on the sensitive skin of his left inner thigh, too close to the crease of his leg and groin to be comfortable.

The gasp escapes his mouth right before the groan, fingers curling into fists as he presses his shoulders back into the carpet and tries to decide whether to push into the teeth or pull away. Bruce is pulling back before he can make up his mind, hand sliding down to press a thumb hard into the fresh bruise. He squirms before Bruce lets go, moving back up his body and then dragging him into a harder kiss.

“You’re _mine_ ,” Bruce says into it.

“In your fucking dreams,” he breathes back, digging his fingers into the armor covering Bruce’s shoulders.

Bruce pulls away a minute after that, flipping the cowl up and shutting himself back behind that wall of _Batman_. The flare of the cape is as ridiculously dramatic as it always is when _Batman_ turns to leave, mouth back in that hard, uncompromising line.

“See you next time, _Brucie_ ,” he calls at Bruce’s back. There’s no response, but he doesn’t expect one.

He stays on the floor for a few more minutes, long enough that moving and disrupting the lingering satisfaction doesn’t feel like a crime, and then finally pushes himself up. He collects his clothes from around the apartment, relaxes into the couch out in the living room, and lights up another cigarette.

When it’s burned down to the filter, he puts it out pointedly, deliberately, in the center of the coffee table.

* * *

It takes two weeks for all of the aches to fade, and he spends another two weeks past that trying to deliberately cross his patrol with Bruce’s and getting nothing. The itch builds up underneath his skin, distracting and frustrating, and his own hands just don’t do enough to make it go away.

Finally, when he gets sick of it, he throws caution to the wind and takes an afternoon ride down to the manor. It’s rare that he ever steps foot in the place, but not unheard of. Usually he doesn’t come by because as much as he loves seeing the old man, Alfred somehow always manages to make him feel guilty and trap him into coming back for some dinner, or promising to call and check in. Alfred is just about the only thing in this manor that he can really stand being around.

Also, most of the family doesn’t appreciate him just showing up out of the blue; they tend to think that he’s planning something nasty and wants to see what might interfere. Which has been true all of maybe _twice_ , so really they’re being paranoid bastards in the way only Bats can.

He pulls into the driveway of the manor, drawing the bike to a stop near the foot of the stairs that lead up to the actual front door. It’s always kind of a toss of fate whether or not he’s welcome in the Cave itself, but no security system is going to try and incapacitate him if he just walks up to the front door, even if no one is home that actually wants him there. This is a safer bet all around, although Alfred will probably reprimand him for coming to the manor all dressed up as Red Hood.

He really does respect Alfred’s rules — no masks in the house — but this is a matter of personal security. If he shows up unannounced at the manor in anything less than his gear it feels too vulnerable, too normal. This is just another challenge. At least he’s got the jacket zipped up, so he’s not showing off the red bat symbol splayed across his chest, and no domino mask on beneath the helmet.

He flips the kickstand on the bike and shuts it down, pulling his helmet off as he swings off the machine. He spends a second hesitating, disguising it as setting the helmet on the seat of the motorcycle so he can tug his gloves off and shove them in the pocket of his jacket. He leaves the helmet there, takes in a slightly deeper breath, and starts to head up the stairs.

Which is promptly interrupted by a loud bark that makes him turn, scan the area until he finds the rampaging form of Damian’s enormous Great Dane mix of a dog headed for him. He automatically braces, shifting his feet to a better position where he’s not balanced on two different stairs, preparing to meet the dog head on like he would any enemy.

Except when Titus gets to him, rearing up on back legs and almost as tall as he is, he doesn’t shove the dog away. He just huffs, staggers a little bit underneath the impact of paws against his shoulders, and gives a small grin.

“Hey, boy,” he murmurs, raising a hand to scratch at the dog’s neck.

Dogs aren’t usually his thing, but this one doesn’t lick him, growl at him for no reason, or try and climb in his lap, so over the years they’ve managed a kind of understanding. It helps that he’s seen once or twice that, like any other member of their family, Titus is a _demon_ when unleashed and angry.

“You shouldn’t let him do that,” calls a voice, and he looks past the dog to find Damian walking up. Sweatpants, sneakers, and a white tank-top that’s slightly dampened by sweat. Clearly the two of them were out on a run, though it doesn’t look like it was over.

He snorts, patting Titus’ head and then lightly pushing him back. The dog takes the hint — smart bastard — and drops back down to the ground. “I don’t mind.”

Damian reaches them, clicking his tongue, and Titus circles around and sits right down at Damian’s side like the perfectly trained dog he is. “I do,” Damian counters. “You’re teaching him bad habits, Todd.” He just shrugs, not even trying to deny that, and Damian’s head tilts. “What are you doing here?”

He almost bites his tongue, almost makes up some kind of bullshit on the spot, but swallows the impulse back. “Looking for Bruce,” he answers shortly. “Haven’t seen him out in a while; he around?

He catches that little narrowing of Damian’s eyes, the spark of confusion, before the younger man speaks. “Father’s been on a mission off world for the last three weeks; he doesn’t expect to be back for another two, last he contacted us.”

His stomach goes tight, jaw clenching down. It’s a sick kind of shock, followed by a swell of anger that almost makes him clench his hands into fists. He controls it with a deep breath, glances up towards the house. “Well, that would have been fucking nice to know,” he mutters.

Forget their arrangement, forget all the nights spent tearing bruises into each other’s skin, it seems like professional courtesy to tell one of your supposed partners, one of the other people involved in protecting _Gotham_ , that you’re not going to be around for over a month. What if he’d actually needed help? What if there had been an emergency or some kind of situation and he didn’t know that Bruce wasn’t around to back him up? That’s the kind of shit he _needs to know_.

There’s an awkward beat of silence, as he gets himself under control, and then Damian asks, “Did you need something, Todd?”

He almost snaps at the brat, but then he looks back and the first thing he sees are steel-blue, narrowed eyes watching him. It snaps into focus in about half a second how _much_ Damian looks like Bruce these days. Not as tall, and he’s lean instead of broad, but the eyes, the line of his jaw, his hair, that _expression_ … He’s seventeen now, and no one could mistake the two — there’s too much Talia in the color of his skin and Damian’s got the same sort of dangerous naked-steel beauty that Talia does — but the similarity is there.

The idea that sparks in Jason’s head is sick, it’s immoral in a way he can’t even pretend to not see, but it sticks. He’s frustrated, and angry, and it _sticks_.

“Frankly,” he starts, forcing his voice to calm down a little even though he’s sure it won’t fool Damian, “it’s been quiet and I’m fucking bored. I was trying to see if Bruce would let me follow him around for a night and harass him; usually he’s got more interesting things going on than whatever crimes I might run across in my section of town.” He shoves at the ground with the toe of one boot, doesn’t even try to pretend he’s not bitter when he adds, “Guess that’s not happening.”

Another moment of silence, then, “You could join me, if you wish.” He meets Damian’s gaze, and the younger man gives a shrug, lifts his chin in something like challenge. “Drake is with the Titans, Brown and Cain are tracking down a lead somewhere in Japan, I despise having Gordon attempt to direct my every move, and I have had just about all I can stand of Grayson’s chattiness and have no interest in calling him from Bludhaven for yet another night full of inane jokes and optimism. If you wish to fill in as a partner, I would not object.”

“Getting sick of the golden boy, huh?”

Damian scoffs, rolls his eyes. “I do not require a partner at all, but Father… _insisted_ , and Grayson has been _reporting_ to him.”

“You’re stuck with a partner _every night?_ ”

“Every other,” Damian corrects, “at minimum. It has been… constraining.”

“Smothering jackasses,” he comments, and gets a small smirk from Damian, though Damian doesn’t verbally agree. “Alright, sounds good. Meet you in the city tonight? Nine?”

Damian tilts his head in a small nod. “Nine. Try not to be late, Todd; I am willing to leave you to your boredom if you are.”

He gives a small grin as Damian starts to head up the stairs and back into the manor. “You leave me behind and I’ll tell _Dickie_ you bailed and went out on your own.” Damian turns, glares at him, and his grin widens. “See you at nine, brat.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! So, now we get to the second half of these two pairings. Jason and Damian. This is where that underage tag comes into play (seventeen, by the way, and it's all totally consensual). Enjoy!

He tries not to think too much between then and nine. If he thinks too much he’s going to think about what an awful idea all of this is, and how much of an absolute prick he is for even thinking about going through with it. He’s going to talk himself out of it, going to convince himself that it’s better if he just leaves the brat alone and lets the anger in his gut fester until its real target is back in town. He shouldn’t take any of this out on Damian.

He still ends up in the nastier parts of town come nine; waiting on the rooftop of a four-story apartment building that he knows is the start to Bruce’s usual patrol route. It’s just a few minutes later that a dark figure propels themselves over the ledge and joins him, and for a second he freezes up because it’s like karma is showing up just to kick him in the teeth.

Then the owner of the black cape and cowl straightens up, and his world resettles into its proper place. Too short and too slim, and as the figure walks closer he can identify the shade of copper skin showing at Damian’s exposed jaw. He crosses his arms, pushing off the stairwell he’s leaning on and turning a little bit to face the not-Batman.

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” he says in place of a greeting, any thought of making nice gone in the face of that unexpected costume.

Damian’s jaw tightens, and the brat spits, “It’s standard protocol, Hood,” up at him. “I am tall enough to pass as Father.”

He snorts. “To some people, maybe. You couldn’t have given me one night away from the fucking Bat?”

“I thought you were _looking_ for Father.”

“On _my_ terms,” he snarls. “Maybe I don’t like him dropping in on me unannounced, or getting reminded of him when I’m not in the fucking mood to deal with it.”

Damian takes a sharp step forward, into his space, and he bares his teeth and barely stops himself from lashing out. “When have you and _I_ ever worked alone together, Todd? It is more common to see you and Father, so _that_ is what I chose to portray. If you dislike it you are free to _leave_ ; I am not responsible for keeping you entertained and I do not need you here.”

“I thought daddy _dearest_ was keeping you reeled in tight,” he spits back. “Don’t you get in trouble if I leave?”

“Is it my fault if you promise to patrol with me and then go back on it?”

“Is it _my_ fault you showed up as the _goddamn Batman?_ ”

“Can you not even handle the shadow of my Father, Todd? Would it make you more _comfortable_ if I returned to the Cave for the completely inane purpose of swapping _clothes?_ ”

He shifts his weight forward, snarls lower in his chest. “I can handle more than you can dream of, _brat_.”

“It is just a _costume_ ,” Damian snarls back, with another small step forward. “It is _protocol_. Even an imbecile like you couldn’t mistake me for my Father, Todd — unless you’ve managed to become even _more_ brain damaged since any of us last checked — so stop shrinking from the mention of his name and behave as the warrior you claim to be!”

He _almost_ hits Damian, almost just says _fuck_ this whole night and attacks, but instead he draws his hands into tight fists. Slowly, through his teeth, he grinds out, “Don’t you _fucking_ tempt me, kid.”

Damian is right in his face, voice a low, rough growl that almost matches Bruce’s. “Do _not_ underestimate what I can handle, Todd. I am not a _child_. I have a _right_ to this suit and I will not give it up just because you can’t deal with the reminder of a man who isn’t even on this _planet_.”

“Shut the hell up,” he growls back, against the anger rising underneath his skin.

Damian’s teeth bare instead. “You have _no right_ to tell me what to do, not when you shy away from a shadow and a name. I knew you were a liar but I never took you to be a _coward_ too, Todd.”

The roar that comes from his chest barely sounds human to his ears, and training abandons him as he lashes out, grabbing Damian’s arms and wrenching him sideways, _slamming_ him up against the wall that was at his back. Damian’s gloved hands dig into the leather of his jacket and he presses close in an instinctive pin, bares his teeth when his roar ends.

He thinks, in that moment, he understands what it’s like to be on the other side of his encounters with Bruce. To be baited until you just _snap_.

Then he’s leaning in, going for that unfamiliar mouth in that too-familiar costume and crashing them together. Damian jerks, gasps in a breath against his mouth, and he snarls into the mockery of a kiss and presses closer, letting go of Damian’s arms. He doesn’t get shoved away, doesn’t get bitten or punched, so he takes it as silent permission to wrap one of his arms around Damian’s waist, beneath the cape, and grab the back of his neck with the other. His fingers curl against the armor, wanting hair that he can grab and _pull_ at, but he makes do with pushing Damian harder against the wall.

Until he pulls his head back just enough that he can breath in the fraction between their mouths, and hisses, “I’m so fucking sick of thinking about _Bruce_.”

Then Damian’s hands are clenching in his jacket, and he expects to be pushed away and almost gasps when, instead, he gets wrenched forward those few inches left between them. Damian’s teeth come down hard on his bottom lip, and he makes a sharp little noise of pain as he feels it split near the center, flinches back a touch before the taste of blood reaches his tongue.

“Then _don’t_ ,” Damian snaps back. “Keep him out of this.”

Instead of answering — instead of _lying_ — he drags Damian into another kiss, pulls Damian hard up against him and shoves first one leg between his thighs and then the other. He can feel Damian’s breath catch, and he forces himself to pull back after another moment, to even out his breathing and try to _think_ before he ends up grinding Damian against the wall like he’s some stupid teenager who can’t think past his cock.

He pulls away enough that he’s sure Damian’s eyes have opened, and then demands, “Come with me.” He takes Damian’s left wrist as he pulls back, doesn’t give him a chance to protest as he heads in the direction of his nearest safehouse, just a block away.

This is the start of Bruce’s usual route; he likes to be nearby.

Damian follows at his heels without a breath of complaint, even when he lets go to make the leaps across the gaps between the buildings. It feels like it takes way too long to get to the small balcony of his apartment, swinging down into it and immediately setting to work disabling his security as Damian comes down beside him.

“It is a _glass door_ ,” Damian snarks, as he finishes the last of the security and pushes it open. “What do you think your alarm system is going to do? _Startle_ them?”

He drags Damian inside, all but flings him against the closest wall while he hooks everything back up and then sweeps the curtain into place to hide them. Then he points to the wires circled around the door, follows them to the explosives they’re hooked into.

“Yeah, it’ll _startle_ them into bits and pieces. Not all of us keep security as non-lethal as the stuff at the Manor, brat. Anyone walking in here gets blown all to hell before they’re anywhere near me.” He stalks closer, boxes Damian in against the wall with his greater height and broader build as he snarls, “Now get that fucking suit off, _Damian_.”

The twist of a smirk feels out of place against the cowl, and he can see Damian’s shoulders curl forwards a bit, see how he’s clearly anticipating something big. “You seem so offended by it, maybe _you_ should be the one to take it off.”

He probably doesn’t disappoint. He jerks forward, shoving Damian harder against the wall and then raising one hand to drag the cowl back along Damian’s skull to bare his face. There’s challenge in every inch of the expression that he reveals, and he tangles his fingers in Damian’s black hair and _yanks_ down.

Damian yelps, flails a bit, but his neck arches anyway and Jason takes full advantage of the moment. He drops his mouth to Damian’s throat, bites down hard and cruel for a moment before moving up to speak right into Damian’s ear.

“You want me to tear this thing right off of you, Robin? Big, bad, Red Hood ripping this _lie_ off your skin?”

Damian actually _snarls_ , jerking against his grip before a punch hits his side with enough force to ache a bit, though not enough to make him actually move. “I have no interest in your _identity_ , Todd. Do this as yourself or not at all.”

He pushes forward against Damian, snaps, “ _Fine_ ,” right into his ear.

He lets both of his hands drop to the cape, pinning Damian with nothing but his weight and the threat of his teeth while he pulls apart all of the little connections with easy familiarity. The cape comes loose easily, and Damian gives a startled gasp as he continues with the outer layer of armor. Damian’s hands press against either side of his waist, and he dips his head and sinks his teeth in closer to the back of his neck, as far as he can get before the bunched up cowl interferes.

Damian hisses, and he almost laughs in response because Damian is arching against him, hips pushing forward in what’s probably an instinctive grind.

He gets the last hook undone for the armor, and pulls back just enough that he can grab Damian’s wrists and drag them up off his waist. It’s definitely _anticipation_ in Damian’s gaze as he yanks both gloves free, and then drags the armor off of his arms to leave the brat in just that last layer of reinforced suit. He gives Damian a predatory grin, gets a fucking _shiver_ for it, and then raises a hand to grab the hidden zipper in the undersuit and pull it down. Slowly, for the effect.

Damian swallows, and he tracks that line of skin being revealed all the way from the hollow of Damian’s throat down to his navel. He shifts closer, pushing one thigh between Damian’s and bracing his free arm against the wall beside his head, leaning in to graze his teeth along Damian’s jaw and then against the top of his throat. He pulls his head back just a bit though, so he can watch Damian’s expression as he slides his gloved hand back up the revealed chest. There’s sharp desire there — strangely naked considering how much effort Damian generally puts into hiding what he feels — a small hint of wariness, and so much anticipation he’s surprised the kid hasn’t vibrated right out of his skin yet.

He pushes the undersuit back off of Damian’s shoulders, leaves it on his upper arms for a moment as he lowers his gaze to the now fully exposed chest. His mouth curls in a small grin as he _watches_ Damian’s nipples pebble underneath his gaze, feels and hears the way the kid’s next breath comes a little bit shaky. He looks up again to study Damian’s expression as he raises his hand, rubs one thumb over a nipple — gets a small little clench of teeth for it — and then pinches. Not too hard, but enough to hurt.

Damian squirms, twisting against the wall but pushing _forward_ , not back. He smirks.

“Someone likes a little _pain_ ,” he comments, and Damian’s teeth bare.

“Do not _tease_ , Todd. Get on with it.”

He bares his teeth right back, then leans in closer and slides his hand up to settle around Damian’s neck, thumb pressing lightly into the hollow of his throat. “What makes you think you get to tell me what to do?” he hisses, pressing until he feels Damian swallow.

“What makes you think I’ll allow you to do whatever you wish?” Damian retaliates.

His chuckle comes out dark, and then he shifts forward and presses Damian _hard_ into the wall. “You’re _still here_.”

Damian’s eyes flicker wide for a moment, but before the brat can say anything he drags him forward, into a hard kiss that still tastes just a bit like blood. He tightens his grip on Damian’s throat by a fraction, waits for the gasp, and then shoves his tongue forward to take and take and _take_.

Damian’s thighs press in against the leg he has between them, and then hands press against his waist with enough force he can feel it through the armor. He retaliates instantaneously, letting go of Damian’s throat so he can grab his wrists instead and _slam_ them up against the wall on either side of Damian’s head. He gets a second gasp for that, and he draws back to put a fraction of space between their mouths so he can let out a low, dark, growl of _threat_ from the depths of his chest.

The catch of breath is audible, and when Damian _shudders_ and arches forwards an inch or so his mouth curls with a vicious sense of satisfaction.

“You like that, little Bat?” he murmurs, speaking through the crooked smirk. “Are you finally realizing you’re in over your head?”

Damian’s eyes open, and the wariness is clearer now but so is the _desire_. He watches the brat swallow, follows the bob of his Adam’s apple and just wants to _bite_ at it. “I am perfectly capable of handling you, _Todd_. If you desire to see me overwhelmed you will have to _earn_ it.” He tightens his grip as Damian pulls against the pin, as the brat’s teeth bare and he spits, “ _Make me_.”

He’s always been a sucker for challenges.

He grins, and then lets go of Damian’s wrists so he can wrench the undersuit down. It’s easy getting it to Damian’s waist, off his arms, and he doesn’t even bother to try for some kind of tease, just hooks his thumbs in underneath the band of Damian’s briefs and shoves them down along with everything else. It leaves everything in a pile on the ground, and he grabs Damian’s throat again to hold the younger man against the wall as he takes a half step back to slowly, _obviously_ , rake his gaze down along Damian’s exposed skin. A hand closes around his wrist, but there’s no pressure and no twist to make him let go so he doesn’t even pretend to care.

He lets his gaze linger on Damian’s erection, almost wants to humiliate him but just lets the silence do it instead, and god _damn_ if the brat’s cock doesn’t actually twitch under the attention. He presses his fingers harder into Damian’s throat, gets _another_ twitch, and laughs.

“Well, isn’t _someone_ just a tangle of all _kinds_ of kinks?” he mocks with a wicked grin.

Before Damian can figure out a response to that he moves, shifting closer and grabbing the brat to flip him and shove his chest up against the wall. Damian sucks in a startled breath, before his hand closes on the back of the younger man’s neck and he presses his weight forward into it, pressing the entire length of his body up against Damian’s back.

He grips Damian’s waist with his free hand, lowers his head so he can exhale hot and slow over the skin beneath Damian’s ear. “Wonder how deep I can crawl under your skin?” he whispers, then tightens his grip and breathes just loud enough to be heard, “Wonder what else I’ll find in there?”

“I—”

He slides the hand on Damian’s waist forward, shoving it between skin and the wall until he can wrap his gloved fingers around Damian’s cock. Damian arches beneath him, shoving into his hand, and he presses his grin against the crook of Damian’s neck and shoulder as the younger man’s hands press hard against the wall, fingers curling against it and scraping blunt nails against the unforgiving surface. When he bites it’s definitely enough to hurt, but it’s not the same kind of force he was using before. This time, he works the skin beneath his teeth as he rolls his hips forwards against Damian’s ass, until he’s sure that he’s broken enough blood vessels that this patch of skin is going to bruise red and ugly and obvious.

“ _Todd_ ,” Damian gasps, pushing into the loose tunnel of his fist.

He pulls his hand away, ignores the sharp little noise of protest Damian makes, and tightens the grip on the back of Damian’s neck as he takes that same half step back so he can get a look at the younger man from the opposite side. He takes his time raking his gaze down the copper skin and the lines of faded and fresh scars, down the back of those legs and then, of course, to Damian’s ass.

It’s not Dick’s absurdly perfect, round ass, but it’s firm and pretty damn gorgeous all on its own.

“Not bad,” is what he chooses to say, making sure his words come out mocking.

Damian shifts, like he’s about to speak, and he brings his free hand in to grab one of the cheeks of that ass to prematurely cut him off. Damian tenses a bit, but he doesn’t let that stop him from getting a good feel of the one half. Then he pulls it to the side a bit, enough that he can take a look at the dusty, clenched ring of muscle hidden between the cheeks, and his grin is utterly real. He shifts back up against Damian’s spine, and lowers his free hand down between Damian’s legs to get a loose grip on the weight of his balls. Damian inhales sharply, and then tenses again when he slides his hand up and back and gets his fingers pressed in between Damian’s cheeks and up against what he most definitely intends to fuck at _least_ once tonight.

He snorts, leaning in to tug at Damian’s earlobe with his teeth. “Relax, I’m not going to fuck you up against the wall, little Bat,” he reassures, and then gives a quiet, rough laugh and adds, “Not this time anyway.”

“You think there will be a second time?” Damian demands, head twisting until they’re nearly face to face, against the pressure on his neck.

“Tonight, or in general?”

Damian gives a small snarl, pressing back against his holds. “You are overestimating your own abilities, Todd.”

Another laugh, before he meets Damian’s snarl with a grin and lets his hand slide up to rest on Damian’s waist instead. “I don’t have to be some kind of sex god to get you wanting a second time, _babe_. You want to know why I’m so damn sure that you’ll be back?”

He waits, makes Damian actually spit, “Yes.”

Then he leans forward, crushing Damian between his weight and the wall as he lowers his mouth to speak into his ear. “You’re getting off on the violence of it, the pain, the possessiveness.” He shakes Damian once by the grip on his neck, lowers his voice to a rough snarl. “I could leave _right now_ and you’d still come back, little Bat, because no matter how many other people you fuck, who else would _dare_ to treat the little prince like _this?_ ”

At the last word he wrenches Damian away from the wall, drags him along by his neck as he strides towards the door to the actual bedroom of the safehouse. Damian’s suit is still tangled around his ankles, and he flails both arms for balance as he’s pulled along, trying to keep up with longer legs and a faster stride.

“Todd!” Damian snaps, and then a curse in Arabic that he understands about half of.

It’s still enough to make him laugh.

He ends up almost carrying Damian the last third of the distance, when he trips, and then finally lifts him to toss him onto the bed itself. Damian rolls to his back, glaring up at him and pushing partway up on his elbows.

“I am supposed to come back because you are an utter _bastard?_ ”

He grins, standing at the foot of the bed. “Yeah, and look how _hard_ you are.”

It’s a thing of beauty to watch Damian flush, fingers curling into the sheets and head twisting away from him to glare, embarrassed, at the bed. He takes advantage of the moment of distraction to lean down and get his hands on Damian’s ankles, deftly undoing the catches to his boots and then pulling the suit off of him to leave the younger man finally fully nude. He takes a couple moments to just look, appreciating all that tightly compacted muscle and the lean, dangerous beauty to him.

He’s not going to say it out loud — even he can recognize when something is going too far — but Damian looks a _lot_ like Talia right at that moment. They both have this quality to them like a sheathed blade; beautiful and gleaming and more than capable of slitting your throat at a single moment of inattention, and _damn_ if that isn’t enticing. He had the same kind of visceral reaction to Talia, during the night they shared a bed.

Seventeen and in over his head; there are some parallels here he’s not sure he wants to draw.

Damian’s mouth curls in a small sneer. “You are _very_ overdressed, Todd.”

He pulls himself out of just looking, moving forward onto the bed and crawling over Damian, shoving him flat onto his back and sliding one leg up in between his thighs. “Maybe I like having you vulnerable,” he taunts. “Maybe I _like_ having all the power.”

Which is when a hand claws for his face, and he flinches back but not in time to prevent nails from catching the edge of his domino and ripping it off his face. They catch a good bit of his temple on the way there too, and he winces at the combined sting of that and the domino getting torn off. What _is_ it about both the Waynes refusing to actually take the time to loosen the adhesive before yanking it off his face?

“”I am _far_ from helpless,” Damian hisses, flinging his domino off the bed to who knows where in the room.

He meets Damian’s gaze, lets his mouth curl in a sarcastic smirk. “Ow.”

“You are _overdressed_ ,” Damian presses, looking poised to strike again if he doesn’t get what he wants.

He braces his weight on one hand, slides the other down to grip the outside of Damian’s thigh as he presses his leg up with enough pressure to make Damian squirm a bit. “Maybe,” he murmurs, digging his fingers in harder, “I was planning on fucking you just like this. Pull my pants down just enough to get in you and—”

“ _No_ ,” Damian interrupts, in a snarl. “You will _undress_ , Todd. It is _fair_.”

He stalls out for a second, just staring, and then blurts, “Jesus, what part of this looks _fair_ to you? Do you think this is some ‘show me yours, I’ll show you mine’ game? That’s so fucking _juvenile_.”

Damian tenses up, teeth baring as his eyes narrow. “And you are always so _mature_.”

That stalls him for another moment, before he barks out a laugh and just mutters, “Touché. Alright, fine. I’ll _undress_ if it’ll make you fucking happy.”

He pushes up, sitting back onto his heels and letting go of Damian’s thigh. He shrugs his jacket off, tosses it over the bed, then gets to work on the buckles for his gloves. Damian actually seems a little surprised that he’s doing what the brat wanted, and he raises an eyebrow and snorts as he throws his gloves down to join the jacket.

“Get that look off your face, little Bat. It’s like you think I’m doing this for _you_ , and not just because it’ll be easier to fuck you without my gear in the way.” Damian flushes again, as he tugs the zipper on his armor down and then sheds that as well. “If I was doing this for you, I’d be making it a _show_.” Finally, he pulls the white undershirt off, and then leans down over Damian as the younger man’s gaze darts down his bare chest and then back up. “And I would have made you ask _nicely_.”

Damian visibly swallows, and he smirks and pushes himself back up so he can swing away from straddling Damian’s thigh and get off the bed. He’s not quite crazy enough to turn his back, and he keeps himself aware of Damian as he makes short work of his boots, and then the knife and gun strapped to his thighs. He’s just unbuckling his belt when Damian speaks again.

“You could not _make_ me do anything.”

His gaze snaps up. Damian’s eyes are narrowed and he’s half sitting up, braced on palms and elbows. It’s defiance and challenge and both those ideas make him want to just slam Damian onto his back and bite down until the brat gives in. Carefully, he reins those impulses in a little bit.

Instead, he bares his teeth, shoves his pants and briefs down, steps out of the puddle it makes around his ankles, and strides forward. Damian’s sharp little gasp eases that part of him that wants to bite down, and he settles for giving a rough snarl and crawling back over the younger man, shoving Damian back down and then leaning in to keep him flat on his back.

“You tempt me and I’ll prove you wrong, little Bat. Don’t start what you can’t finish.”

Damian’s hands rise, gripping his biceps and digging nails in on the edge of painful. “I am not the _only_ one who has not finished what he started. If you are so intent on _fucking_ me, perhaps you should _get on with it_.”

He gives a rough bark of laughter and plants one hand in the center of Damian’s chest to give himself something to push up off of. “Even if I thought you were enough of a masochist to actually enjoy getting fucked with no lube or prep — which I don’t — I _wouldn’t_. Have a little patience, brat; I’ll keep it quick.”

He knocks Damian’s grip off of him and then stretches out, reaching for the nightstand. It’s almost out of reach, and he ends up laying basically his full weight on Damian so he can get his fingers inside it and grab the bottle of lube. Damian makes an offended noise even as his breath leaves him in a huff.

“Todd, you are _heavy_.”

“Well if you hadn’t taunted me I would have grabbed it while I was still standing.”

It takes a little effort to get his weight back on his knees, and he _considers_ just asking, or ordering, before shrugging the idea of being _nice_ off. Instead he grabs Damian’s hips and manually flips the brat, laying him out on his stomach before dragging his hips into the air to put him on his knees instead, ass up and out.

“Todd!” Damian sounds almost scandalized, and he preemptively wraps one arm down around Damian’s thighs to hold him in place as he clicks the cap of the bottle open one-handed.

“Wayne!” he mocks right back, doing a bit of careful maneuvering to get the lube actually on his fingers and not all over the bed. “Relax,” he orders, stroking the fingers of his clean hand — belonging to the arm wrapped around Damian’s legs — across Damian’s thigh. “We’re not going to get anywhere if you’re stiff as a board.”

“There is _no_ reason for me to be in this position,” Damian hisses, twisting against his grip so he just holds on tighter. “Let go or I will _hurt_ you, Todd.”

“Sure there’s a reason,” he counters, completely ignoring the threat because honestly, it’s not much of one. He pauses a moment, can almost _feel_ Damian’s hesitation, and uses it to raise his other hand up without interference. “I _like_ it.”

Damian jerks when a finger slides home, spits out another curse in Arabic that just makes him grin as he leans over and down, pressing little nipping kisses to the section of Damian’s spine that he can reach. It seems to stop Damian’s threat in its tracks, because he doesn’t get clawed or punched or otherwise hurt even though he keeps his arm looped tight around Damian’s thighs.

“Seriously,” he murmurs into Damian’s back, “relax, Damian. I get that you like some pain, but this is not something to fuck around with. _Relax_.”

He can almost physically feel the sarcastic response on the tip of Damian’s tongue, but it doesn’t come. Instead, Damian slowly spits, “I would prefer to be on my back.” It’s said like it’s the ultimate concession, like it’s some kind of huge surrender that he’s only grudgingly allowing himself.

He pauses, briefly considers the pros and cons, and then shoves out a sharp breath and lets go. Keeping Damian on his knees feels… It feels like too much.

So he pulls his finger out and twists Damian’s hips to push the younger man onto his back, parting Damian’s thighs and tugging him down a couple inches so he can sit snugly between those spread legs. They immediately press in against his hips, and he almost rolls his eyes as he idly shoves them wide again, trying to convey that pressing those legs in against him is not _relaxing_.

“Alright,” he concedes, “your turn, little Bat. Relax for me.”

Damian has that wary edge back in his gaze, but he does breathe out long and slow and the tension _does_ drain out of him somewhat. It looks manual, but that’s good enough. He can work with forced relaxation; it’s all the same when it comes down to the physical necessities.

Of course, Damian ruins the moment by hissing, “Not for _you_.”

He snorts, slides his hand back down to press that finger back in and watch Damian’s eyes squeeze shut for a moment. “Of course not.”

Maybe there are some advantages to having Damian laid out flat like this. Specifically, the sight of Damian’s hands twisting into the sheets is pretty damn nice, and so is the little flash of teeth as Damian notices him watching and flushes, twisting his head away. He smirks, but doesn’t comment on it even though he _has_ a sarcastic little jab about Damian choosing this sitting on the tip of his tongue. It’s clearly been awhile, and Damian’s clearly at least a little nervous even if he’s _never_ going to admit it, so this is not the time. There’s a fine line between being a bastard and being a piece of shit, and he’s not willing to accidentally cross it. Purposefully, maybe, but not accidentally.

He leans down instead, calling Damian’s attention back with a quiet, “Hey,” and then catching the brat’s mouth in a kiss. A little softer this time, a little more exploratory and a little bit less like he wants to eat the brat alive. Which isn’t necessarily untrue, but being rough is not going to help Damian relax.

He lifts his free hand and slides it into Damian’s hair, cupping the back of his skull so he can adjust it to a slightly better angle. Damian’s mouth parts almost hesitantly, and he gives a muffled sound of satisfaction as he slips his tongue in to explore. Damian’s pressed close enough to him that he can feel the faint shiver, and he curls his fingers in that black hair and tugs just enough to give the sensation without causing any pain. He feels more than hears the tiny moan that Damian makes, and smirks as he pulls back from the kiss and pulls Damian’s throat into an arch at the same time. He doesn’t even bother opening his eyes, just paints a trail of kisses down Damian’s jaw and onto the more sensitive skin around his ear.

Damian squirms, giving a little gasp, and presses down against the single finger inside him.

“Todd, don’t—”

“ _Hush_ ,” he orders, and miraculously, Damian does. “I know what I’m doing, little Bat. Let me do it.”

Damian’s hands grab onto his shoulders, a little bit less heavy on the nails this time, and the brat gives an argumentative sound and presses upwards a little. “You are leaving marks too high up,” Damian protests. “Todd, _stop_.”

He snorts, dryly comments, “It’s called _concealer_ ,” but does lower his mouth a few inches to safer territories. “It’s not any different than covering up the fact that someone punched you in the face.”

“Have a lot of practice at that?” Damian jabs.

The answer that comes out of his mouth is almost too truthful. “I don’t cover up my bruises,” he murmurs into Damian’s neck, then quickly covers the honesty by adding, “No paparazzi to give a fuck that I don’t look perfect at all times.”

Damian doesn’t continue the half of a conversation, but the grip on his shoulders slides up along his back, fingers clearly mapping out muscle and tracing the lines of old scars. It probably satisfies him a little too much when he pushes a second finger into Damian and gets those hands to dig nails into his skin. He gets a bitten-off gasp too, and without thinking hums something like reassurance into Damian’s throat. He doesn’t go as far as saying anything, but he takes a bit of care to keep the roll of his fingers relatively gentle, even as he curls them in search of Damian’s prostate.

It takes him a bit to find it, but then his fingers find the different texture and Damian’s hands dig into his back again. He gives a quiet laugh into Damian’s skin, but keeps any nasty comments off of his tongue. Damian’s breath comes a little sharper, but the younger man doesn’t say anything either, just arches a bit and twists down towards his hand. It takes self-control he honestly didn’t know he had, but he stops himself from rocking down against Damian’s hips, even though he can feel the grazes of heated skin against his own as Damian squirms and it’s _damn_ distracting.

To combat that, and to keep himself from doing anything stupid — like working himself up too high to even make the fuck worth it — he shifts his body down. He lets go of Damian’s hair so he can brace against the bed and keep his balance, sucking a trail of hickeys in a meandering path down Damian’s chest. He pays special attention to the small whine — almost inaudible if he wasn’t paying so much attention — he gets when he sucks one right over the protrusion of Damian’s collarbone, and he makes sure to graze his teeth over that skin a little longer than the rest of it. He detours off the path Damian probably expects after that, slipping sideways so he can mark his way down Damian’s side and the sensitive skin over his ribs.

Damian’s hands end up in his hair, curled tight and pulling with just enough pressure that he can feel it. He’s pretty sure it’s not even intentional, but it’s a _damn_ good feeling so he doesn’t stop it, though he does twist his head and nip at the skin of one of Damian’s wrists in warning. He meets the hazed blue eyes looking down at him for just a moment, then smirks and goes back to his mission to track what parts of Damian he’s had his mouth on.

By the time he reaches Damian’s hip the younger man is rocking up into the thrusts of his fingers, head arched back and the hands in his hair rhythmically clenching and releasing in little waves of motion. So he slips his fingers almost all the way out, keeps the same rhythm and pushes a third in beside them. Damian’s inhalation is sharp, and he waits just a moment for the flutter of hot muscle to ease before continuing his rocking thrusts. He sucks a mark into the hollow of Damian’s hip, _enjoys_ the almost startled sounding moan that he gets for the sensation.

“Look at that,” he murmurs as he pushes up, shifting back up and over Damian. “The arrogant little _prince_ , Damian Wayne…” He pauses to wait for Damian’s eyes to open and meet his gaze before he finishes, “All wrapped around my fingers.”

Damian’s eyes widen and then the flush comes right on its heels, darkening the tops of Damian’s cheeks. That, paired with the way Damian scowls in a clear mixture of anger and embarrassment, gets a grin out of him.

“Watch your tongue,” Damian hisses, and his grin gets a little wider.

“You want to? Maybe next time, little Bat; I’m not that big a fan of the taste of lube.”

And Damian’s flush gets _darker_ , that scowl disappearing underneath fresh shock.

He laughs, then takes a bit of mercy on the brat and leans in to catch Damian’s mouth in a kiss. He takes his time coaxing Damian to open his mouth, giving little painless nips to his lower lip and tracing his tongue along the seam between Damian’s lips. It doesn’t take all that long, and then he carefully matches the roll and thrust of his tongue to the movement of his fingers. _That_ gets him a muffled moan and another clench of the hands in his hair, and to ride that bit of momentum he curls his fingers and rubs purposefully along the bundle of Damian’s prostate.

Damian tugs at his hair hard enough to get him to break the kiss, presses thighs in against the side of his hips, and then _whines_ into the fraction of air between them. And _fuck_ , if he wasn’t already rock hard that would have done it.

He bares his teeth in reaction, takes a second to rein in the impulses screaming at him to just _take_ , and then steals a last lingering kiss before pulling away. Damian’s hands slide out of his hair — which he’s almost sad about — as he sits up, and he has to twist his head away to locate where the hell he abandoned the bottle of lube. He finds it half behind one of Damian’s knees, and reaches over to pick it up. He waits until he’s got it down between them before pulling his fingers out of Damian, so he can watch the entrance contract and it nearly knocks the breath out of him.

He finds his lip curling in a snarl, needing some way to safely vent the surge of animalistic desire to have and take and _claim_. Damian’s thighs pressing hard in against his hips as the younger man twists against the bed and then _arches_ does not help.

His hands are actually shaking a little bit as he squeezes some of the lube out onto his already dirty hand and then tosses the bottle aside. He hisses at the contact of his hand on his own cock, squeezes his eyes shut for a second and gets it done as quickly as possible before forcing himself to lower his hand back down to Damian’s ass and rub as much of the excess on his hand onto Damian’s skin as he can, dipping his fingers in past the rim as well.

Damian’s hands twist into the sheets, and he takes in a deep breath to try for just some small measure of restraint. He braces his clean hand beside Damian’s head, aims himself with the other and then presses forward. Damian gasps at the first breach, clenches down and he forces himself to _stop_. He has to take a second to drag in a hard breath.

“Easy,” he manages to say, “ _easy_. Relax, Damian. Just let me in.”

Damian shudders, and then there are nails digging into his back and he jerks on instinct, shoving himself in a couple inches further before he can stop. Damian’s nails _rake_ his back, and he hisses and shudders himself.

“ _Fuck_ ,” is all he can get out for a second, before he gathers some of his mind back. “Come on, brat. You’re good; promise. I’ve got you.”

It hard to say whether it’s because of his words or just the passing time, but Damian does shudder into something a little closer to relaxation. It’s enough that he can carefully rock forward, easing himself further into Damian with little rolls of his hips, until finally he bottoms out. Damian is actually trembling a little bit, breath coming in sharp little bursts, and he lowers his head to brush his nose across Damian’s throat, breathing in the scent of sex and sweat and whatever kind of cologne or soap Damian is using that definitely smells like it costs more than most people earn in a month.

If _rich_ had a scent…

“Todd,” Damian breathes, nails digging into his back again. “Todd, I— I need—”

“I know,” he answers, almost surprised at how rough and low his voice comes out. “Just hang on to me, little Bat.”

He grabs Damian’s hip, tilts it up just a little bit and then gives a testing roll of his own hips. When Damian doesn’t flinch or clench too hard or anything else that would betray pain, he loosens the tight restraints on the instinct and _desire_ burning in his chest. He bares his teeth, _doesn’t_ bite down but does give a deep growl into Damian’s throat as he rocks forward a little harder, a little faster. Damian responds with a strangled moan, arching up against him and staying that way, hands pressing hard against his back with almost enough force behind them to force him closer. Almost.

Damian feels hot against and around him, especially the rush of breath against the top of his shoulder, and _fuck_ but he’s tight. Not enough to really worry him, but definitely the kind of tight that implies that it’s been awhile since Damian did this. At least as far as he remembers, though it’s been awhile since he actually played top so he might not be right. The important bit is that Damian doesn’t seem to be in any kind of mood-ruining pain, and isn’t demanding he stop.

What little control he’s still keeping slips as he fucks into Damian, and he pushes himself up with his free hand and shrugs off Damian’s grip, sitting up between the brat’s legs and grabbing his other hip so he can put some real power behind his thrusts. Damian arches, face twisting into something too heavy with desire to be a real grimace. He tightens his grip, lets his head fall back for a moment as he pants with the exertion, then forces himself to loosen his hands a little so he can slide them down Damian’s thighs. He lifts those thighs a bit, guides them to wrap around his waist instead of clinging to his hips.

His head dips, eyes squeezing shut as he grabs hold of either side of Damian’s waist to drag him down onto the thrusts. Damian twists against his grip, heels digging into his low back as the younger man gives a breathy cry. Then fingers grab the edges of his hair, curling half into the strands above his ear, and his eyes snap open to follow the length of Damian’s outstretched arm.

Before he can really think about it he _strikes_.

He lets go, grabs Damian’s wrists, and lunges forward to slam them down against the bed to either side of Damian’s head. Damian’s eyes fly open, wide and surprised, and he bares his teeth in threat and picks up the pace of the snap of his hips. That drives Damian to arch, to gasp, to pull against the grip on his wrists and then shudder when he leans his weight down into the pin.

“Todd!” His name comes out as what’s nearly a cry, and Damian’s second shudder is a lot harder. “I— I _can’t_ … Todd! Just—”

He understands the disconnected plea, and drags Damian’s wrists across the bed until he can cross them over the brat’s head and swap his grip to just one hand. The other he shoves down between them, wrapping his hand around Damian’s cock with no real ceremony. Damian _shouts_ , and he almost echoes it at the sharp contraction of muscle around him. He strangles it back to a hard shove of breath, then forces himself to concentrate for a moment so he can match the rhythm of his hips and his hand. Luckily it comes easily, because he’s damn sure he wouldn’t have had the focus to make it work if it hadn’t.

Damian is writhing, pulling against the hand pinning his wrists down. The legs wrapped around his waist are pressing in hard enough that he’s pretty sure that he’s going to bruise in a spot or two, and the intermittent, almost random clenching around his cock is wrenching him towards an end he isn’t ready for yet. He wants to enjoy this, to really get to take in the picture of Damian, undone, desperate, and pinned beneath him.

Then Damian’s back is arching high, every muscle winding tight before he gives a sound almost loud enough to be a _shriek_. He feels Damian pulse in his hand, feels a stray splatter of hot wetness against his stomach and watches that arch collapse as Damian shakes. He lasts long enough to watch it ease, to get a good view of Damian’s parted lips and thoroughly _debauched_ appearance, before his own orgasm crashes over him.

He tightens his grip on Damian’s wrists, squeezes his eyes shut and shouts as his hips stutter, the wave of it slamming the breath out of him and washing his body out with _ecstasy_ for a few good, long moments.

He comes back to himself slowly, head hanging low and his breath coming in deep gasps, hips still rocking in tiny little circles to chase that feeling. He stops that first, then pries his fingers off of Damian’s wrists — those are going to bruise — and pushes up, giving himself some distance back. He has to manually unhook Damian’s thighs from around his waist, and he opens his eyes so he can watch Damian squirm as he pulls out. It doesn’t disappoint.

He runs his hands down the spread of Damian’s thighs, gets a tired look from lidded blue eyes, and then pulls away. He climbs over enough that he doesn’t crush Damian’s leg when he lets himself fall onto his back, stretching out along the bed and hooking an arm behind his head. The afterglow lingers and he relaxes into it, not trying to calm his breathing down any faster than natural.

He hears the bed shift, and then snaps his eyes open when heat touches his side and weight settles down onto his shoulder. He looks down and finds Damian pressed up along the length of his body and beneath his arm, upper hand falling to rest on his stomach and the head of black hair settling neatly over his heart.

He just stares for a second, and then blurts, “What the fuck are you doing?”

“Relaxing,” Damian says, and then his tone turns sarcastic, “was that not what you _wanted_ from me, Todd?”

“I don’t do… whatever the fuck it is you’re trying here,” he tries to enforce. “You’re supposed to leave.”

“Says who?”

“The _rules_.”

“Tt. I thought you lived to _break_ rules, Todd.”

He glares down at Damian’s head, which _still_ hasn’t lifted to actually look at him. “There are some unspoken rules about encounters like these and you’re fucking them over, Damian. Jesus, it’s like this is your first time.”

At that, Damian’s head does raise, and there’s a defiant look to the flat line of his mouth. “What does it matter if it is?”

He almost feels his world snap into little pieces.

He jerks back, putting a foot or so of distance between them as something close to horror washes down his spine. “You— I— Jesus, tell me you’re fucking joking.” The silence is answer enough. “ _Shit_. I didn’t mean to—” His hand rises, tugging through his hair. “ _Fuck_ , you didn’t think to maybe _mention that?_ ”

Damian’s eyes narrow. “Exactly when should I have slipped that into the encounter, Todd? What would it have changed, anyway?”

His breath is coming too sharp, too fast. “I don’t know! I would have— _fuck_ , been gentler? Nicer? Not fucking done it to begin with?!”

Damian is moving, and the shock lets the brat — the fucking _virgin_ before this mess — get a hand in the center of his chest and shove him flat onto his back. “You are a _hypocrite_ , Todd,” Damian spits. “You were fine with sleeping with me, despite the fact I am not yet legal, but now that you know I had no prior experience it’s suddenly morally _wrong?_ Why does that make any difference?”

“I thought you knew what you were doing!” he snaps back, glaring. “ _Jesus_ , Damian, I thought you knew your fucking limits! I thought you knew enough to stop me if I went too far!”

Damian’s voice comes out low and dark. “I am fully capable of stopping you, Todd. Do _not_ underestimate me.”

He surges up, shoving Damian back and then getting right in his face. “Yeah? Would you have stopped me if I’d just thrown lube on and gone to fuck you without any prep? Or if I didn’t use lube at all? How about if I hadn’t slowed down when I realized you were nervous? What if I’d ignored it when you wanted to be on your back?”

“You did not _do_ any of that, so—”

“That’s not the _fucking point!_ ” he shouts, and Damian actually flinches back half an inch. “ _Jesus_ , Damian, do you have any idea what I could have done to you?! How badly I could have hurt you or scared you just by not knowing that you didn’t know enough to stop me?! _Fuck!_ ” He shoves off the bed, stands and whirls and tries not to throw whatever’s nearest at hand. “Do you actually— You stupid little _bastard_ , do you have any idea what sex is supposed to be? The dry mechanics, the feeling, _anything_ at all?”

Damian gets off the bed, sliding to his full height and stepping right up in front of him. “You talk as if I am some naive _child_ incapable of making my own choices, Todd. Your first action was to slam me against a wall; do you think I expected anything less than what occurred?”

He starts to speak, starts to argue, and Damian coils and lashes out, sinking a punch right into his sternum. He chokes, staggers back, hits the edge of the bed and falls backs onto it as he gasps for air.

“It has already happened,” Damian says from above him. “I enjoyed myself, you enjoyed _yourself_ , and any fears you have about the experience are pointless because they _did not happen_. Whatever your previous mistakes, if I did not trust you with my safety I would not have let you near me, let alone let any of _this_ occur. So lie back down and either cease this _pointless_ trial of self-pity and self-hatred or at least do it _silently_ because I was enjoying myself and I am _not done_. Is that clear enough for you, Todd?”

He gapes, then manages to get enough air into his lungs to say a breathless, “Yes.”

“Good. Vertical on the bed, on your back, _now_.”

He obeys, lifting himself against the lingering ache in his chest to shift into the position Damian wants, before opening a spot underneath his left arm that Damian almost immediately slips back into. He shoves out a hysterically amused burst of air because he can’t get enough of it to really laugh.

“Bruce is going to fucking skin me alive,” he whispers, as Damian presses up against him, left arm wrapping over his stomach in a way that feels decidedly possessive.

“ _I_ was not planning on telling him,” Damian almost snaps. “Were you?”

_Yes_ , but he bites down on that answer, bites down on that whole desire to _hurt_ Bruce because this isn’t right. Sleeping with Damian was one thing but actually being the first? _Taking_ something that important for a chance to make a jab at Bruce? That’s going too far, it’s selfish and too _cruel_ to just be part of the game and he _never_ meant to…

It’s like he’s seventeen and in over his head all over again.


End file.
